An Angel Decieved
by theHarlequin
Summary: the unexamined life of Meg Giry. [or how it could have been, anyways..] Always living in the Shadow of Another.


"Quick, quick, before he reaches us. Do you hear him? He is coming up the stairs winding this way and that hoping to catch prey with his deadly Magical Lasso. Follow me, and his deft deformed hands shall not_ touch_ you. Follow me, and his marred faced will not see your beauty; with me, you are safe. But we must hurry! He is coming. With his magical lasso, he will _take_ you, he will _hurt_ you, and he will _ravage_ you. But come with me and I will _protect_ you. I will shelter you from this Living Hell!" Running up the steps so fast, flying past them. Stumbling but holding onto this strange mans' large hands. So gentle and so firm. He is glancing back at me every so often and his kind eyes are telling me the truth.

Running from the footsteps below. Running from this Living Hell my protector speaks of. This masked man chasing us running as fast as he can. This Bad man trying to hurt me. Trying to take me away. He is screaming, what he is screaming, I cannot decipher. There are Loud tantrums bursting from his very insides. He is gaining ground on us and he is flying past these steps too, with his rope, cape flying behind him. So frightened. Latched onto this man, my savior. The Caped man is screaming even more now. loudly. Harshly. "LET HER GO. STOP, NO!" the caped man grabbing and touching me with his ugly hands. He is snatching and pulling and running after me. And finally my Angel flings open a door. The costume closet for the Populaire. And as I tumble inside, he clicks the lock and the door is shut. The masked man outside is screaming with fury with anger that he has lost. I am safe.

But the gentle hands start changing. Now they are Hard; they are Powerful. They are fumbling and Touching. Touching me, all over. Places mother has never touched. His eyes once so truthful are now glittering with a want. With a greed. And I am Scared now, and I am Frightened for now I Know that this is what mother meant when she told me looks were deceiving. I thought I was safe, escaping from the man that looked like a monster. My true protector was locked outside. This strange man with his fingers scratching me; biting me. And it hurts and he is the real monster. And I am dizzy and fumbling as well, "stop, stop" my voice meek from my own weakness. Listening to myself and I hear my cowardly whimpers. So painful so strange so violated so naked so faraway, and this monster.

These beautiful costumes swirling around overhead and he is beating me. His once-gentle hands are holding me still. I cannot move; I cannot speak. He is tearing off my dress now. In a terrible fury. The buttons that took Mother three weeks to sew on are now coming apart in three seconds. Where is she? Where is everyone? And he is undoing his belt. And he is lashing at me. Forcing me to hold still. So dizzy. And now he is ramming me. Into the wall. He is here. He is inside of me."

Gasps- Meg woke with a start. Deftly clearing her eyes struggling with her sheets. The Maddening Shroud covering her.. wound so tightly. Another nightmare. She sighed. There was no point in going back to sleep now. She wouldn't have the nightmare until he revisited her the next night, but she couldn't sleep anymore. Still shaking, she untangled herself from her heavy and suffocating sheets. Quickly, she glanced at the two beds across the large room. Mother and Christine were still sleeping and they wouldn't be up for another five hours or so for the cast rehearsal at seven. With great care to be silent, she swung herself out of bed pausing to straighten her clothes and steady her breath. Wiping the beads of sweat that had formed on her brow, she slung her pointe shoes over her shoulders with a grace only a dancer could possess. She silently tiptoed barefoot across the room and towards the heavily gilded oak door. She turned the elaborate Victorian handle as gently as she could and slipped through a small space like a creek easing its' way between two large rocks. Though the doors were old and used often, they made no sound when opened or shut. This came to a great advantage for some, as rehearsals and practice rooms go. And it came to a great disadvantage for others, such as Meg. For, screams of help are muffled entirely. She chose the long way of getting to her seldomly used practice room as she usually did, to avoid other parts of the Populaire that might harbor dangers.

She paused on the way there, and looked at the great stage. It would be set up tomorrow for concerts with lavish murals and artful backgrounds. But for now, it was empty and gray. So vast and so still.

It had a quiet power that almost beckoned to you. Like an unknown spirit was there. There was nobody inside, nobody rehearsing or practicing and yet, there was music. There was always an echo in the great hall. Always a story to be told, something resonating over and over again. She used to think it was eerie, haunting and creepy. But now, she understood this powerful silence and its' cry. Practice room forgotten, she stepped into the open. Feeling so small, with the entire world in front of her. This barren stage, this dark and empty place, this was the world. She could see their faces, she could see Mother and Christine and even la Carlotta. And she wanted so badly to tell them what had happened that night.

She clumsily fell to the floor, her soft pointe shoes, rounded at the tip from months of hard work following her. She felt something cold drop on her leg and she realized she was crying. She wiped at her face, imagining she was wiping it away until it was nothing. She angrily brushed those tears out of her eyes and called herself a coward. A weakling. And looking out at the world, she knew what she had to do.

All their eyes pleasantly bemused. Expecting an explanation. Politely waiting for the truth. She opened her mouth, only to hear ragged sharp breathing. She longed to tell the world. She longed to tell them how it felt. But she couldn't speak. It seemed like every time she tried to, her body completely shut down. She opened her mouth once again. The world was waiting. And now there was a longing. A wanting in her body. Her legs suddenly shaking and able.

She stood up only to realize she had laced up her point shoes without even knowing it. And her legs were trembling now. Obeying this silent force, this strange force. And now the hall was playing. It was telling Her story. It was speaking for her through the music. It was such a sad piece.

And she began to tell the world. Spinning her tales and words with leaps and pirouettes. Leaping so high and Twirling so fast she was dizzy but she was flying. She was free and unbound from the chains of silence at last. And she was Weeping. She was Dancing. And while she flew on this stage, the music grew louder. And she was sweating and her legs were protesting. But she was free, she couldn't stop now. and this hall that understood her pain so well was swelling all around her. This music matching exactly what she felt. This beautiful music that only she could hear. And suddenly it stopped. And she collapsed to the floor. And she realized that the music wasn't just her imagination. There had been someone playing the piano. And now they stopped. Who could it have been? She heard laughing and chattering in the distance. And she realized the stranger had fled because the Populaire was stirring, the people were waking. She fled to the piano, in search of a clue as to who her nighttime companion could have been. She discovered nothing. And she heard a flutter of wings and felt something drop alongside her.

She turned around expecting the worst. Expecting Him to be there. Grinning his leering grin. His knowing smile. But when she turned, all she saw was a beautiful rose. Not the already bloomed bright red roses she was used to seeing at the Populaire after concerts, but a crude, almost homemade rose. Dark red in color, almost black. The rose had not fully bloomed, it had been picked a little too soon, leaving it with room to grow.

It had a ribbon the color of night, an old black velvet faded to a dark gray.. tied around it. She looked at it a long time, and dropped it. Pretending to walk away. She heard a swish of sound from above somewhere, the same flutter of wings she had heard before.. But she couldn't pinpoint the location.

When she was certain the Populaire was truly empty, she tiptoed back silently, picked it up, and left with the ribbon dangling from her hand.


End file.
